


Lines that can't be Read

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Self-Harm, Triggers, childhood neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes started cutting at six years old. This is the story of how Mycroft was a good brother, until he couldn't be; and how John came to be Sherlock's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Liebling told me I'm evil for leaving the end of a fic in the middle of a sentence.
> 
> Update: I posted the rest, so yay for all the subscribers who wanted more!

Sherlock started younger than most.

At six years old children are wild and carefree. They start to make friends and begin to learn their place in the world. At six years old, children have curious minds, and can always be fascinated.

At six years old, children play.                                                               

 

At six years old, Sherlock was grounded and disciplined. He had no friends and was the outcast of his school. At six years old, Sherlock was far ahead of his peers, and had an insatiable need for facts.

At six years old, Sherlock started cutting.

 

He started it as an experiment. He was studying the hypothesis that physical pain can act as an emotional stimulus relief. His independent variable was the daily taunts of his school peers. His dependent variable was how often he felt he should cut. The control was his environment, blade, cut depth, and procedure. Sherlock soon forgot about the experiment and labeled it as ‘inconclusive’. Filed away to be visited later.

Sherlock has an addictive personality. By the time Sherlock reached the age of 16, he was still cutting on a regular basis, but was discreet enough not to be caught. It wouldn’t matter if he was caught anyhow. No one cared for him. He was smart though; Sherlock only had a few lines that he’d repeatedly cut open, instead of making new scars. He let them heal in rotation to his cutting. Cutting made Sherlock feel better. He was still alone; no one was able to tolerate him-let alone stand him; and cutting made his world better. The deep crimson peeking out from underneath the blade tip, the surge of pain as his body works quickly to heal the wound, the involuntary sigh of relief at being pulled out of his head. It kept him going.

 Childhood neglect is not something easy to notice. The outcome persons are usually leaders, caretakers, strong and silent. Sufferers of childhood neglect don’t want to be strong. They don’t want to feel the need to care for everyone around them. They don’t want to be silent. But these people don’t know how to be weak. They don’t know how to talk, or how to feel. They want to be taken care of; they are strong because they never got to be weak. These people often don’t know how to love. Or if they do, they don’t know how to _be_ loved. These people are strong because they don’t know how to be anything else, and it kills them every day. These people will listen to your problems, and never once mention their own. These people will let you cry on their shoulder, but will never cry on yours. These people don’t know how, because they were never taught.

 Sherlock was unfortunate enough to be one.

Sherlock grew up in a practically empty house. If he needed something, a list was set on the counter, and his needs were met in a timely fashion. Of all his life, Sherlock Holmes has seen his mother a total of six times. After his birth, he was handed off to nannies. Mycroft Holmes has seen his mother enough to have no number. Mycroft Holmes was a wanted child, and was obviously favored for his successful life. Mycroft had tried to help Sherlock; every time he came home from school for holiday, Mycroft would set about teaching his brother things like organizing his mind palace, or manipulation, or other things along the like. But for all that Mycroft cared; he simply did it when convenient, and unfortunately, it wasn’t enough for Sherlock.

At Uni, Sherlock decided to make a few more lines to add into the rotation. He was up to 8

 now. One for every year he had before he discovered bliss. Sherlock finished his classes early. All his work for the year done by the end of the first month of classes, and all set to be turned in automatically on his laptop. So with nothing to do, Sherlock explored. With a small flat to himself, he was able to test freely and he used this to his advantage.

He started it as an experiment. He was studying the effects of cocaine and heroin on an above average mind like his. His independent variable was the substances. His dependent variable, the frequency of need that he felt for each drug and the effects his mind displayed when different mixtures of each were in his system. His control was the dealer, amount, and procedure. Sherlock lost sight of the experiment. Labeling it as ‘inconclusive’, he filed it away for later.

Sherlock was an addict. That’s all there was to be said about him when he used. The cocaine slowed down his mind, and the heroin sped it up. He used them in cycle. He cut on cocaine, and experimented on heroin. Sherlock could not control it. He didn’t have anyone that cared about him; and Mycroft was busy being the British government. Sherlock was an addict, and he was all alone.

Sherlock cut every day. During his recovery from drugs, Sherlock began to cut even more, only ever letting himself heal one night before he reopened the wounds. This helped him get through rehab. Cutting offered an outlet when he could no longer use drugs as one. When Sherlock was past it all, the rehab, relapses, and much more; he began to consult at Scotland Yard.

The work helped Sherlock. It provided the distraction drugs had, without nasty side effects with the exception of Anderson and Donovan, but he could easily live with that. But Sherlock was still alone; and so Sherlock still cut.

Living alone in Baker Street, Sherlock didn’t have to hide his activities. It was as a part of his daily routine as much as showering was. He kept his razor in the medicine cabinet, next to the pain medication he took when he had injuries from the work. Every night, Sherlock grabbed his razor and sat on the toilet. Long, pale fingers would roll up his sleeve to the elbow. Five centimeters from his wrist joint, were 4 straight lines on each arm. Two were in the process of healing, while two were in their rotation of being cut. The blade pushed in at an angle, leaving an

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John the caretaker <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> picks up at the same sentence the last chapter left off with

overlap of skin that caused more pain when pressed. Blood welled up in the line, and Sherlock’s fingers would prod the area around it, trying to coax more blood from the weeping slit. The ritual was repeated on the other arm. By next week his wounds would be healed, and he’d start in on the other set of lines. But the blood wasn’t enough. Sherlock needed the pain, and for the past few years, cuts had simply not been enough. Sherlock would grab a liquid, anything with alcohol, and pour it on the site; the sting creating a delicious bite that would further pull him from the busyness that is his mind. Sherlock was not looking forward to the day this wasn’t enough, but like he always did, he pushed away the thought and burrowed into the pain that evicted him from the entrapment of his skull.

Sherlock met John by chance. He never expected Mike to bring someone along as a potential flatmate. And two years later, when John was still by his side, he was still amazed. John Watson was the very first person to ever care about him. He was the first person that complimented Sherlock instead of insulting him. John was the first person to understand Sherlock, and he was grateful for it. But for as close as felt to John, he still felt alone. And when Sherlock feels alone, he cuts.

It was bound to happen. It really was only a matter of time before Sherlock made a mistake and he was captured. His capturer preferred to use a knife as his weapon of choice. He left on Sherlock’s deep purple shirt, and slashed his chest randomly. He liked to play games; the quieter he was, the deeper the cut. Most ran diagonal, but a few ran vertically across the thin frame of his chest. It took 11 days for John to find him. Sherlock had been fed every three days, just to keep him going; he was weak and bleeding, but other than that he was fine.

Sherlock objected to treatment from the paramedics. John, being a doctor, decided to care for him at home where Sherlock would be more comfortable. John had to help the taller man up the stairs and into the flat. Sitting him down on the sofa, John headed to the bathroom and grabbed his medical kit, along with a pair of scissors.

John sat down in front of Sherlock and began to cut up the front of the shirt. Sherlock began to protest when he tried to cut along the sleeves, but was too weak to stop the doctor. John focused on the deeper gashes, and noticed a few scars the man had received on their previous cases together. After he had stitched up the worst of them, and bandaged the smaller one, he began to run a check over the rest of his friend’s body. Hair-tangled and matted together; face-bruised from punches here and there; chest-taken care of, arms-healing? John stared closely at the 4 horizontal lines on each wrist each a perfect 2 centimeters long, and evenly spaced; nothing like the scars he’d acquired during his entrapment. Two on each arm were completely healed while the rest were still healing.  

Sherlock had his eyes closed, and his head hung down in shame. John saw his scars; he saw how weak he was. He began to brace himself for the ridicule he was used to. He waited for John to express his disgust and taunt him about how pathetic he was, like the kids used to in school. Sherlock waited for all this, while a slow stream of tears began to push through the seal of his eyelids. He knew he deserved it; he deserved it all. He couldn’t be normal like everyone else; he couldn’t hold his tongue when he knew something. He was a freak, and he couldn’t understand why.

John’s chest clenched the sight of those lines. Pain consumed him for his best friend. John had had a good life, with the exception of Harry. He’d always had a friend and his parents loved him dearly. But John knew about Sherlock’s past to an extent. He knew that he’d been an outcast in schools. He knew that he grew up alone; but he’d always thought that Sherlock had been okay. He didn’t seem to mind being alone from what he could tell. And the only thing that had ever told him otherwise was the scars he’d just revealed. John finally understood, and it broke his heart to do so.

John looked up at the owner of the scars, and he felt tears prick the back of his eyes at the sight. Sherlock hung his head, with his eyes shut tightly closed, but it didn’t stop the tears flowing from them. He ran his thumbs along the scars and spoke, “Look at me Sherlock.” his voice gentle, but commanding. Sherlock remained still except for the slight shake of his head saying ‘no’.

“Sherlock.” John said in a demanding voice, the only voice that could bend Sherlock to someone’s will. And since it was John, he lifted his head and opened his eyes that were glossed over with a fresh wave of tears.

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock pulled away and tried to compose himself. John only grabbed his arms and pulled the man towards him. John wrapped his arms around the detective, and gave the man the first hug he’d ever received. And with that, Sherlock broke down. John hushed him and whispered reassurances the way you would calm a child, and after sitting in the awkward position for over an hour, Sherlock started to calm down. He fell asleep on the smaller man’s shoulder and John gently laid him down on the sofa. After removing his and Sherlock’s shoes, John lifted the sleeping man that was dangerously light, and carried him to his bedroom. Pulling back Sherlock’s expensive duvet and sheets, he slid the man into bed. Sherlock settled and curled in on himself until John slid in next to him, and pulled the sleeping body across his chest. Sherlock immediately wrapped himself around the smaller man, craving touch even in his sleep.

John lay awake thinking. He knew that Sherlock had been alone, but since he declared that he was a sociopath, John didn’t think Sherlock minded. He didn’t realize how deprived of attention the man was. And he didn’t realize how much the man craved it. At the thought of how desperate Sherlock was for human contact, John pulled Sherlock closer, enough that he was practically laying on top of him. After a short while, John began to drift to sleep. The comfort of the bed and the warmth of Sherlock lulling him to sleep like a strong lullaby.

John woke before Sherlock the next morning; not surprising since the man had barely ate or slept since being captured. Slipping out of bed, John went to the kitchen and made some tea and toast. As he walked back into the room, Sherlock was curled into a ball, smaller than he should have been able to go since he had such long limbs. John set the tray down on the nightstand and turned back to Sherlock when the man whimpered in his sleep. Sitting carefully on the bed, John pried the man’s arms away from his legs and pulled his top half onto his lap, rubbing Sherlock’s head through his still-matted hair. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and shut a few times. When his mind caught up, he opened his eyes wide, and tried to hurriedly pull away. John held on like he would a frightened animal, and waited for Sherlock to calm down.

Eventually Sherlock stopped fighting and tried to pull away slowly, and John let him go; only keeping contact with a hand on Sherlock’s leg. Picking up the mug of tea, he handed it to Sherlock, who took it and sipped gratefully for the delay in conversation. After he finished his toast, Sherlock stared at John’s chest, unable to look the man in the eyes. John brought his right hand up to Sherlock’s face and cupped his cheek, “It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s okay to feel alone sometimes, but you are not always alone. I’m here, and I want you to let me be with you now.” He paused, “Is that okay?”

Sherlock was staring into John’s eyes as he heard the words and inhaled in disbelief. Sherlock had expected John to yell at him, and call him stupid. He’d expected him to leave him alone like everyone else did; but John always managed to surprise him. Sherlock nodded and started to pull John close, but stopped himself. John saw his hesitation, and finished the gesture, pulling Sherlock to his chest and holding him close.

The rest of the day was filled with touch, so much so that John called Sarah at surgery and took the next week and a half off; he also called Lestrade and told him to hold all cases. Sherlock was still hesitant to initiate any contact, but John always reassured him by providing what he wanted. He barely had a minute to himself since Sherlock was so attached. John didn’t feel annoyed though, he felt honored. Sherlock was trying to make up for what he’d never received, and he chose John to do it with; it made him feel special. There weren’t many words spoken for that week, and if there were, it was John murmuring things in Sherlock’s ear. John had even taken to sleeping in Sherlock’s bed with him. Slipping under the covers just before the tall man wrapped himself around the smaller man.

Nearing the end of the week, John could sense that Sherlock was holding back. There was something the man wanted to do, but kept to himself in fear of rejection. So as John climbed into bed one night, he instead sat on his legs and waited for Sherlock to follow suit. Sitting in front of him, Sherlock was looking into his eyes, curiosity written on his face. John took his left hand and intertwined it with Sherlock’s taking his right and placing it at the back of Sherlock’s neck, his hand running through the longs curls. John sat up and leaned forward, twisting his head, closing his eyes, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments?

**Author's Note:**

> This is all that I have for now, but I might continue the prompt later if anyone's interested.
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


End file.
